


Don't let me go; take me to the edge

by crookedspoon



Series: Be quiet and drive (far away) [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Bottom Joseph Kavinsky, Inspired by Music, M/M, POV Ronan Lynch, POV Second Person, Road Trips, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 08:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11596812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: The hour-long drives and restless nights turn your days into a haze of dream-like images, impressions, impulses, stuttering like a flicker book – the open road before you, the car thrumming beneath you, Kavinsky twisting out of the window beside you and whooping with the thrill of it, white tanktop fluttering around his stomach.





	Don't let me go; take me to the edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owltrocious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/gifts).



> Written for the prompts #455 "Breathless" at slashthedrabble and "Road trip" at genprompt-bingo round 12.
> 
> Soundtrack for this is [Deftones - Passenger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTPn4Jlrjb0), which the word breathless always makes me think of and which, frankly, I've always wanted to write something for. Like my first work in the fandom, this may or may not be part of the Road Trip AU I'm still not writing despite the occasional excited reminder by my friend who helped me plan like half of it.

The hour-long drives and restless nights turn your days into a haze of dream-like images, impressions, impulses, stuttering like a flicker book – the open road before you, the car thrumming beneath you, Kavinsky twisting out of the window beside you and whooping with the thrill of it, white tanktop fluttering around his stomach.

Your brain is slow-cooked in that metal crock pot you drive, heat and exhaustion coming together to blur the line between reality and fever dream.

Kavinsky, wind-whipped and adrenaline-fueled, leaning over your lap, damn near crawling into it because he's craving your fingers in his hair, scratching down his back, or stretching him open, but you've tried it, there's not enough room to maneuver in the driver's seat while the door's closed and you're driving, so this is his only option to tease you. Your skull thuds against the headrest as your world centers around his hot mouth on your dick, and the engine roars with the speed crashing through you.

His lips, burning coals on your chest, your throat, your mouth, daring you to stop the car. Your eyes barely make out the road ahead. Hunger is gnawing at your insides.

With no motels in sight, you park on the shoulder, and the air, oppressive with the lingering humidity, clings to your skin, as hot as his breath against yours, now that no breeze stirs against you anymore. You grind against each other, needy and impatient, but somehow manage to shimmy out of your clothes, chucking your shoes into the dust by the road and sinking into each other, teeth, appendages and all, his fingers finding all your bruises with blind instinct. 

The backseat is cramped, not meant for elaborate gestures, and your skin sticks to it as he drives you deeper into it, and into himself. His forehead presses against yours before it slips to your shoulder, so he wouldn't bump his head against the roof just as you would when you're curled over his back, hands covering the tattoos snaking over his ribs, while his are braced against the door as you fuck him without regard for his physical wellbeing.

The leather creaks beneath you and the windows bead with condensation until you roll them down and gasp in the stagnant night air, not caring to stop even as headlights approach, cast a glimmer of illumination over the sweat dripping in runnels down his body, and vanish again.

You're drunk on him, on the hisses and groans, the slope of his neck, the tremor in his spine when he's coming apart for you. It's these little details that convince you this must real and not a heated fantasy, even when your brain is in a fog and every moment spent touching him just addles it more. The sheer want in his eyes is too raw for you to have imagined, his ragged breathing too honest – as if he himself is battling the possibility that this might be just another dream he could wake from.

**Author's Note:**

> Title also from Passenger.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com), if that's your thing. :)


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